Manic Monday: Fresh

Fresh air, breathtaking lakes, forests, vistas, and small-town life. What could be more appealing? These and more are the qualities that a certain charming Austrian village possesses, and life in it would be ideal, except for the damn tourists who keep stealing town signs to take home as souvenirs. Well, all I can say is Fucking sure sounds refreshing in winter or in any other season. What's more, seems like the people there (or those working for the Austrian Tourist Board) are very accommodating and have a great sense of humor too. They're good sports, at least.



A town that used to be called Sexmoan here in the Philippines would do well to have such great PR!

For other takes on this week's theme word, fresh, visit Morgen at It's a Blog Eat Blog World.

Manic Monday #26: Frost

I've never been to any place where there's winter. I've never been to anywhere I could risk getting frostbitten. I've never been to a destination where I need to wear layers upon layers upon layers of clothing just to go out of the house. I've never had Jack Frost nipping at my nose, or anyplace else he can nip.

I think the coldest temperature I've ever experienced was nine degrees Celsius (I don't know the equivalent in Fahrenheit, and I'm too lazy to convert it or even look it up, sorry). That was in the province of Benguet up in the mountains here when I was a lot younger. I'm used to 25-32 degree temperatures (Celsius again) in Manila, so nine was already quite chilly for me.

Last year I was with friends in the same mountain area. Daytime was okay, but when the late afternoon crept in with its icy-cold winds I couldn't help shivering and hugging myself in spite of the extra layer of clothing. It seemed like Jack Frost's sister was in town and was determined to keep everything perky with her icy breath. Fourteen degrees (Celsius) without the wind-chill factor--the temperature when I was there last year--might seem positively tropical to a number of you, but it was already too damn cold for me.


That isn't to say I was miserable. Though I become chilled easily, time spent with friends, laughter all around, and fortification with food and alcohol were more than enough to bring a comforting sense of warmth.

Maybe someday I'll find myself spending some time in a place where the temperature is considerably lower, where I'll need to encase my body in layers and layers of clothing just to step outside the door, where Jack Frost will more than just nip at my nose, ears, and toes, where I'd shiver and quiver like Jell-o in a rambunctious child's hand. Who knows? The world is a big place. Enigmatic, seductive. I'd like to see as much of it as I can in all its 3-D glory (hot and cold) before I call it a night forever.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
-from Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, by Robert Frost

But please don't let me bite the dust (or frost) all alone in some remote place like the North Pole. My sense of adventure doesn't quite go that far.

Manic Monday #26: Orange

I didn't know that I knew this song. When the title came up in conversation with a friend (whose national color is orange, btw) a few weeks ago, it didn't ring any bells (even though I enjoy REM's music). But after looking it up and listening to it, I found that I knew it after all. I could even sing along to it. (But please do me a favor and don't ask for proof.)

So that got me wondering if it's true that our brain stores everything we hear, see, feel, and touch every single day. And if it is, is that a good or a bad thing? I think that everything we experience happens for a reason, and that something good comes out somehow from even the worst experiences. But it's kind of troubling to think that the vast majority of memories are locked in the subconscious, forgotten until something -- an aroma, a taste, a sound -- releases it, by which time it can be too late to do anyone any real good.

Oh, for a more direct connection to this week's Manic Monday theme, orange, I'll state for the record that it's one of my favorite colors. I hope this fact isn't in my buddy Avery's memory bank anymore. He loathes the color and threatened me with bodily harm when I told him I liked it. Kidding! He's a terrific writer (read this, you won't regret it), too bad he doesn't seem to be posting anymore.

Everyone have an enjoyable week!

Manic Monday #25: Kit

This is actually two posts in one: Morgen's Manic Monday (this week's theme word is kit) and Frank's It Was a Dark and Stormy Night Meme, inspired by the Bulwer-Lytton fiction contest (click here for rules and dates if you want to join the contest on that site).

Frank's the head of the unofficial Gale Martin cheering squad (she's writing a novel) and ordered suggested we do the meme to encourage Gale. So...go, Gale, go! Meme or no, you know we're cheering for you all the way.

Rules:
1. Choose two genres from the ones listed below in #4
2. Come up with a suitable title for a different novel for each of your genre choices.
3. Write a different opening 'atrocious' paragraph of your 'highly praised novel' in context to each genre you chose, paying particular attention to the "Dark and stormy" quality of your first sentence of your paragraph. Don't just rewrite the "Dark and stormy" sentence for your paragraph. Come up with something new and fresh, but 'atrocious' too. The sentence and paragraph should follow good English grammar rules. Don't just write a grammatical mess of a sentence. Remember, you are a Nobel Prize worthy author.
4. Choose two of the following genres for each of your "Prized Novels": Western, Science Fiction, Romance, Historical Fiction, Modern Contemporary Fiction, Mystery, Comedy, Horror.
5. Post the meme description and rules.
6. Post your first genre choice, title and paragraph, followed by your second genre choice, title and paragraph.
7. Prepare yourself for accolades of laughter and ridicule for your "Highly Praised Novels'" atrocious openings.
8. Contact the Nobel Prize officials for you may just continue and write that award winning novel.
9. Tag people, lotsa people. (I'm tagging anyone who wants to play along.)

So here they are, the worst titles and opening paragraphs of two imaginary novels:

Genre: Modern Contemporary Fiction
Title: A Bacardi Nightmare in the Present Tense

After his initial shock at how the Identi-kit image of the woman the press called Jackie the Ripper resembled his former English teacher, down to the mole that looked like a big, hairy, pregnant tick beside her left nostril, Charlie started dreaming of bikini babes -- with legs and armpits as smooth as Kojak's pate, though not as shiny perhaps -- on the Caribbean cruise he’d take with the reward money being offered for her capture.

Genre: Romance
Title: Love in the Time of E. Coli

Watching him disrobe, Juanita wondered (fully aware of how ridiculous she looked fluttering her false eyelashes while nervously gnawing her lower lip like it was cherry chewing gum -- but the sugarless kind; she was trying to lose weight) whether the languorous heat spreading in her abdomen like golden tequila was due to excitement, or if it was an intestinal infection from that juicy -- but maybe undercooked? -- hamburger she had bought from the street vendor with the sweet, sweet buns.

Manic Monday #24: Clue

When I was growing up, my brothers and I used to spend most summer days and evenings out in the street, playing street games with the neighborhood kids. I also remember times when we, about eight or nine of us, would fling ourselves on our bikes and ride off to spend the afternoon in one of the local pools. But when the rains came and classes had to be suspended, we'd amuse ourselves indoors with various toys: robots that were popular during that time, miniature cars, board games.

One of our favorite board games was Cluedo (or Clue), a cool whodunit. By methods of deduction, one had to be the first to announce the murderer's identity, along with the weapon he/she used and the room in the mansion where the murder was committed. I remember my character was always Miss Scarlet; my older brother liked using Professor Plum while my younger brother always chose Colonel Mustard.

Then came computer games. We particularly liked Sierra On-Line's adventure offerings, such as the King's Quest and Space Quest series. It used to be that one would need about ten of those humungous eight-inch floppy disks to hold one game. The quest for each game may have been different, but the gameplay was similar: follow a series of clues, talk to each person along the way, make use of the objects you come across, find a cheat or walkthrough when you get stuck. If you kept at it long enough you'd succeed. And you would've had fun besides.

This made me think about real-life adventures. I don't mean adventures on a grand scale -- like climbing Mount Everest or saving whales. Every day can be an adventure in itself. Getting an unexpected laugh, doing something small for someone else, writing about something that you find to be utterly glorious in all its shapes and colors, finding something to be passionate about and acting on them, sharing with others helpful information that you enjoy reading, just because, inspiring others and being inspired -- all these things add up to make the game of life a richer experience.

Sure, there may be moments when clues are ignored or overlooked, when whatever system you're dealing with screws up, when you seem to be stuck, when you lose enthusiasm and feel like throwing in the towel and give it all up. But I believe that each of us an inner spark, an ember that keeps on glowing no matter how much we feel like we're drowning in despair or apathy. And somehow we persevere. Achieving victories in life isn't always accompanied by fireworks, fame and fortune (though I won't say no to those!). But when it's Game Over, win or lose, certain players you meet along the way and experience things with, whether for just a season or for a lifetime, make everything worthwhile.

Manic Monday #23: Deal

Visit Manic Monday maestro Morgen at It's a Blog Eat Blog World for other bloggers' takes on this week's Manic Monday word: DEAL.

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Haggling is a way of life for many consumers and retailers here in the Philippines. I guess the only places where haggling isn't done are in the big malls and convenience stores, though I've heard one can get away with it sometimes. Whatever it is you're buying in the street bazaars and wet markets, from fresh fish, meat and vegetables to sunglasses to clothing to electronic appliances, if you want to pay as little as possible get the most of your money and get a good deal, then you should be prepared to do some serious bargaining. You're a wuss if you don't even try.

Ladies and gentlemen, you're reading the blog of a wuss.

For the life of me I just can't seem to do it that well. Any attempt I make at haggling is just so pathetic, and the salespeople know that the woman in front of them is not a haggler in any sense of the word so I end up paying the product's stated price.

I didn't inherit my mother's talent in this department. I remember when I was a kid and we'd go somewhere to buy something. My brothers would go with my dad for a snack, leaving me and my sister to accompany our Mother in her bargain-hunting spree.

Act I
Scene: Late 1970s. Stall displaying some lovely local home decor craft: batik cloth lampshades, piña placemats, hand-painted capiz trays. Mother's nostriles flare like a bloodhound's as she zooms in on a set of placemats.

Mother: Ano'ng last price nito? (What's the last price for this?)

[Apparently the sign that says 200 pesos isn't really the final price. Oh, the things a little girl doesn't know!]

Salesgirl: Last price na po 'yan ma'am (That's the last price, ma'am.)

Mother: [left eyebrow rising to the stratosphere] The stall a few doors down sells theirs for 175 pesos, and their set has eight placemats. Eight! Yours has just six! Six!!!!! [voice rising ever so slightly in indignation near the end.]

My mom has this knack for looking like an offended duchess when the situation calls for it. She does it through subtle body language, like tilting her head just so or closing her fan with a snap or pursing her lips in a certain way or raising her shoulders for a millisecond. It's an awesome sight.

Salesgirl extols the merits of their placemats, Mother gives her rebuttals and mentions the price she thinks the set is worth. My gaze swings back and forth. I'm lost in admiration and awe. Would that wars were won this way! My mother then gives a barely perceptible sniff and tells me and my sister that we're going. We start to walk out.

Salesgirl: [calling after us] Sige na nga po, ma'am. Buena mano ko po kayo. (Okay, ma'am. You're my first sale today.)

She wraps the damned placemats and gives them to my mother. Both parties are happy, though both give the impression they're pissed.

ACT II

Scene: Sometime in the early 2000's. Tiyangge (flea market). Lizza is walking around until something catches her eye. What's this? A miniature flashlight that doubles (quadruples?) as a bookmark, barometer, and chainsaw! [This product exists, I swear! Or something like it anyway.] She can barely contain her excitement, never mind that she doesn't need one of these thingamajigs.

Lizza: Last price, please? [determinedly ignoring the life-size sign proclaiming it's priced at 200 pesos. That's about US$4, for you non-peso-savvy people out there.]

Salesgirl: That's the last price.

Lizza: That's a bit expensive for something so small. [weak attempt at deprecation]

Salesgirl: No, it's cheap for something that can do so many things! [and proceeds to give a demonstration of all the things that the flashlight-bookmark-barometer-chainsaw can do. Awesome!]

Lizza: Ooooohhh, aaaaahhhh!

Salesgirl: [gives the clincher] This comes straight from Bangkok! And we're nearly out of stock!!! We won't get any new ones for at least three weeks!!!!!

Lizza: [all but shoves her P200 bill down the salesgirl's throat; so panicked is she at the thought of not being one of the suckers privileged few to own a flashlight-bookmark-barometer-chainsaw in the here and now]

Salesgirl: [pocketing Lizza's beer money and handing her her new acquisition, then waves her hand languidly at another display stand in her stall] Take a look at this new product. It's from China!!! Just rub a small amount every night, and your nipples will turn pink in no time!!!!

Lizza: [smiles sweetly, but thinks, "I'm not a fair-skinned Filipina. I'm the brown kind! I'd look freaking ridiculous with pink nipples!"]

P.S. (That product does exist, I pinkie [haha] swear. Next time I go to that market, I'll take a picture to show you doubting Thomases. A picture of the product [from China!!!], okay? Not my nipples. Let's make that clear.)

Manic Monday #22: Drop

Visit Morgen's site, It's a Blog Eat Blog World, for other interpretations of this week's Manic Monday theme: DROP.

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As some of you may know, I love the rain. So it's hardly any surprise to read here that I'm enjoying the days and nights more now. Because of the cooler weather. Because of the fresh, clean smell of the air after a downpour. Because curling up in bed with a good book (and some chocolate) with the rain tapping on the roof for background music is just so cozy.

But with the monsoons come problems like floods and landslides, which happen not just here in the Philippines but in many other parts of Asia too.

Raindrops, teardrops. Hard to tell which is which sometimes.

Sad how something that's otherwise beneficial, peaceful, and beautiful can bring so much death and destruction. Whether there's too little or too much or just enough, it'll pass. All we can do really is to just let it rain, keep our chins up, and make the most of it. And drink beer.

Be still, sad heart, and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.
-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Manic Monday #21: Lie

What if, instead of his nose growing longer every time he lied, his boystick:

• became spongy and spotted (and no, I don't mean this)
• grew a wart
• turned another color
• shrank an inch until it disappeared altogether?

Poor little wooden boy. No more wood.

Manic Monday #20: Marble

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away (of course you know I exaggerate slightly) there were several silly teenage girls who formed a fast friendship during their high school years. (Of course you know I was one of them.)

They did lots of things together, were involved in a few extracurricular activities together; each was part of the others' everyday school day. One of the fun things they did was to write notes to each other during the day (when they should've been concentrating on things that their parents were paying for them to be in school -- notably, schoolwork).

The notes were nonsensical, but they were hilarious. Each one would pretend to be something she was not: a business magnate, a world-famous writer, a contessa. The writer of the note would disparage the recipient in not-so-subtle ways.

For example:

Note 1: Darling, you simply must visit my milliner in Paris, when you scrape up money for your airfare. She makes the most delightful peignoirs! We sure as hell didn't know then that milliners, Parisian or otherwise, did NOT make peignoirs, nor did we care. It just sounded so snooty to use the words "peignoir" and "milliner" in the same sentence.

Or it went something like this:

Note 2: The new bath oils Philippe gave me are simply divine! It was so difficult to try not using it all in my marble bathtub. Naturally we took it for granted that no Philippe existed in her life. But we were a tad chagrined to see for ourselves in time that the note-sender DID have a humungous marble bathtub at home. We knew that her family was loaded and that she lived in a mansion, but somehow it never entered our minds that she was telling the truth when she mentioned having a marble tub.

We outgrew the derisive notes, but not the friendship. One of the girls in the group, with whom I've been friends since we were seven or eight years old, and who's godmother to my son and I to one of hers, is particularly special.

She's marble: perfect, imperfect; malleable, sturdy; cold, warm; classic, modern; silly, profound; fragile, eternal. She is soft and sensitive, yet possesses extraordinary inner strength.

When we were younger, she was many things that drove me up the wall. We went through much of elementary, high school, and college together (we were dormitory roommates in college too). Still, I wouldn't change anything about her if I could. She knows much of the inner me. She used to be my nemesis in addition to being my friend; today she's my nemesis no longer. I love her dearly, and one of the myriad reasons for this is because she doesn't make fun of me when I'm this close to peeling from beach UV ray overexposure syndrome.

I'm no sculptor, but the memories of times with her (and I'm sure memories to be made) will be forever engraved on my consciousness.



Visit Manic Monday maestro Morgen at It's a Blog Eat Blog World to read other uses of this week's theme word, marble.

Manic Monday #19: Seven

In the Paradiso part of Dante's Divine Comedy, heaven is made up of nine spheres; the seventh sphere, or seventh heaven, being known as the sphere of Saturn (no, NOT the spear of Saturn, you smart alecks). Though it's interesting to contemplate just what this Roman god of fertility's spear would look like. Hmmm...

Anyway.

In the Paradiso, the seventh sphere is one of contemplation, a silent heaven. It sounds kind of boring when compared to the other heavenly spheres, which are either romantic, heroic, or intellectual. Even the so-called "sweet symphony of Paradise" is missing in seventh heaven. But there's a reason for this silence: mortals like Dante would be overwhelmed beyond his capacities if he were to hear celestial music or be subject to other sensory stimuli this far up in heaven. Such pure glory would be beyond a corporeal entity's ability to receive: it might kill him outright.


We have intimations of the odd effects of this sort of purity in our flesh-and-blood world, the world away from oral or written literature. Diving using pure oxygen can be hazardous; the claims of a person that she or he has only the purest intentions towards something or someone might best be taken with a grain of salt. Seeing with one's own eyes the unbelievable beauty of a landscape or seascape can leave him feeling like he's about to implode from the sheer beauty of it. Feeling utterly loved or loving someone utterly, being in a state of "perfection" -- however short the moment (which sometimes feels like an eternity) -- can be overwhelming, and the exquisite pain/pleasure that it brings can make one cry out for respite. Such can be the consequence of allowing one's thoughts and feelings to run untrammeled. Thank goodness there are other states of the heart and mind that complement/atone for the sometimes overpowering feelings that seventh heaven can bring.

Thanks for reading thoughts brought about by lack of sleep because of watching too much of MSN Live Earth last night (salamat, ZeroImpact, for the heads-up!).



Visit Manic Monday head honcho Morgen over at It's a Blog Eat Blog World for other interpretations of this week's theme word: Seven.

Manic Monday #18: Independence

Ang pagiging malaya ay isang nakatutuwang bagay. Makalipas ang mahigit sa isandaang taon matapos makamit ang kalayaan mula sa Espanya at maraming dekada mula sa mga Amerikano, nagpapatuloy magpasahanggang ngayon ang pagtatalo kung ang Pilipinas nga ba ay totoong mlaya na. At isa sa mga pinagtutuunan ng pansin ang paggamit ng wika.

Independence is a funny creature. More than a century after gaining independence from Spain, and decades after independence from the Americans, debates rage to this day as to whether the Philippines is really independent. And one hot topic involves the use of language.

May mga pahayag na naaayon at kumokontra sa pagturing sa wikang Kastila bilang isa sa mga opisyal na wika (bilang karagdagan sa wikang Filipino at Ingles). May mga tao na kumokontra sa pagtatalaga kay Gat. Jose Rizal bilang pambansang bayani ng Pilipinas sapagkat (ayon sa kanila) hindi niya gustong magkaroon ng kalayaan mula sa mga Kastila. At sa kadahilanang mahilig siya sa mga babae. At dahil isa siyang miyembro ng mga matataas na tao na tinatawag na “Ilustrados” (the Enlightened Ones). At dahil siya’y sumulat sa wikang Kastila.

There are arguments for and against establishing Spanish as one of our official languages (in addition to Filipino and English). There are people who decry the designation of José Rizal as the national hero of the Philippines because (they claim) he didn't really want independence from Spain. And because he was allegedly a womanizer. And because he was a member of that elite class called Ilustrados (the Enlightened Ones). And because he wrote in Spanish.

Isa sa pinakaprominenteng pahayagan ng rebolusyon ng mga panahong iyon, “La Independencia”, ay ginamit upang makamit ang kalayaan mula sa mga Kastila, at sa kalaunan, sa mga Amerikano. Hindi ito nakamit ng lubusan (“ibinigay” ng Espanya ang Pilipinas sa Amerika, kasama ng Guam at Puerto Rico bilang pagsunod sa Kasunduan ng Paris, at matapos magbigay ang Amerika ng $20 milyong dolyar bilang “regalo” sa Espanya) ngunit ang pahayagan ay nagpakita kung paano ang pagiging makabayan ay mainit at nananatili sa loob ng mga makabayang Pilipinong kasama sa pagbuo at pagpapaandar nito. Sina Antonio Luna, Apolinario Mabini, T.H. Pardo de Tavera, Rosa Sevilla, Jose Palma at marami pang ibang kasama sa pakikibaka. Maisip lamang ang pagsasama-sama ng mga malalaking tao sa likod ng kasaysayan ng Pilipinas ay nagbibigay sa akin ng kakaibang pakiramdam. Lahat ng bayani, lalaki at babae na nakibaka sa kung paano ang bansa ay pinagpasa-pasahan mula sa isang mananakop patungo sa iba pa, “binili at ibinenta na parang mga kabayo at bahay.” Masasabi bang ang pagsusulat nila (at ni Rizal) sa wikang Kastila ay magiging basehan ng pagkawala ng pagiging makabayan?


One of the most prominent revolutionary newspapers of the time, La Independencia, was instrumental in efforts to achieve independence from the Spanish, and later, the Americans. It didn't quite achieve those goals (the Philippines was "given" by Spain to the USA along with Guam and Puerto Rico in accordance with the Treaty of Paris, and after the US gave a "gift" of $20 million to Spain) but the newspaper showed how nationalism burned hot and bright within the hearts of the nationalists involved in its creation and operation. Antonio Luna, Apolinario Mabini, T.H. Pardo de Tavera, Rosa Sevilla, Jose Palma and many other luminaries. The thought of these historical giants of Philippine history in one place together gives me goosebumps. Heroes all; men and women who were outraged at how the country was passed from one colonist to another, "bought and sold like horses and houses." Does the fact that they (and Rizal) wrote in Spanish make them any less patriotic?

Ang pagsasalita at pakikipag-talastasan ba nang maraming Pilipino sa iba’t ibang wika, bukod sa Pilipino/Filipino, ay basehan na nababawasan ang pagiging makabayan? May mga ibang taong nag-iisip nito. Para sa akin, wala akong nakikitang masama sa kagustuhang matutong makipagtalastasan sa ibang wika. Hindi ko iniisip na kinakalimutan ko ang aking pagiging Pilipino, at hindi ako hihinto sa paggamit ng sarili kong wika sa pang-araw araw na pamumuhay o kaya’y mawalan ng paghanga sa ganda ng wikang Pilipino (na mayroong mahigit isang daang diyalekto). Ngunit hiwalay sa potensiyal na benepisyo nito sa ekonomiya, sa aking palagay, ang pag-aaral ng ibang wika ay isang magandang oportunidad na maibahagi sa iba ang istorya tungkol sa aking bansa, kababayan at kultura sa wikang kanilang maiintindihan.

Does the fact that many Filipinos are presently capable of communicating in languages other than Pilipino/Filipino make us any less nationalistic? Some people think so. Personally, I don't see anything wrong with wanting to learn to communicate in another language. I don't think I'd be neglecting my Filipino-ness, and I'd never stop using my own language in everyday life nor cease to marvel at the beauty of the languages of the Philippines (we have more than 100 dialects). But apart from the potential economic benefits, I think learning a foreign language is a good opportunity to share with others stories about my country, people, and culture in a tongue that they'd understand.

Bukod dito, sa aking palagay, ang pag-aaral ng ibang wika ay isang simpleng bagay lamang, at magaling para sa pagpapalawak ng pag-iisip. Mag-aaral ako ng wikang Italyano sa halip na “sudoku” anumang araw.

Besides, I think language-learning is just plain cool, and it's great for stimulating the brain cells as well. I'll take learning Italian over sudoku anyday.



Visit Manic Monday creator Morgen's site, It's a Blog Eat Blog World to go to other Independence posts. Advanced Happy 4th of July to my American buddies!

Manic Monday #17: Heat

Today's Manic Monday theme is heat. Visit Morgen over at It's a Blog Eat Blog World to see links to other bloggers' take on the theme word.

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Anger as soon as fed is dead -
'Tis starving makes it fat.
-Emily Dickinson

I can never understand the refusal of some people to let themselves get angry. Or their seeming refusal to give in to anger. But perhaps I'm being unfair. Perhaps they have their own way of coping with anger, a method they don't show to just anyone.

Me, I usually keep my rage under wraps. That isn't to say I repress it; those who know me well can tell when I'm feeling out of sorts, and they usually know when to leave me alone and when to cajole me out of it.

I don't like being part of scenes, and I certainly don't like making scenes. I'm not the type to raise my voice at my kids in public; I don't shout at service personnel when service isn't up to par; I don't engage in screaming matches with people whose opinions differ so disagreeably from mine.

And I don't like getting angry in front of other people because when I get angry, I cry. And I'm butt-ugly when I cry.

[Where did that expression, butt ugly, come from? Butts aren't ugly, are they?]

No, when I get really angry, I go into a room inside my mind. I close the door, bolt it shut, and throw a tantrum that's as wild as it can get. I rail against life's injustices (real or imagined), beat my fists against the walls until they're all raw and bloody, and scream myself hoarse. Then I do it again. And again. Sometimes a few minutes is all it takes, other times it takes hours -- doesn't really matter because time stands still when I'm in that room.

I simmer, rant, and rave until the anger builds to a peak, becomes a searing white-hot flame that engulfs me, all the furniture thrown helter skelter, the bloodied walls of that room in my mind. Until everything is consumed in the heat -- even anger itself. In the resulting quiet, reason rears its head and is then able to start working to deal with what caused the anger in the first place.

Fire, destructive as it is, can also lead the way to renewal and regeneration. There's a reason why conservationists burn parts of savannas every so often. Fire encourages biodiversity. Venting anger in certain ways leads to healing. Just don't go hurting anyone deliberately -- physically, verbally, or psychologically -- because you'll really look butt-ugly if you do.

Manic Monday #16: Friend

Today's Manic Monday word is "friend." Check out Morgen's blog for other takes on the theme.

You know how it is on those social networks like MySpace and Friendster, where the user's popularity is measured by how many "friends" she or he has in the network? That's fun stuff, but how many of us actually have something like 839 friends in real life?

I certainly don't. The number of friends I have I can count on the fingers of one hand. And today I'd like to talk a bit about two of them.

Whaaaat? This is my blog, I'll post pics of myself whenever I want to. I'm just as much a publicity whore as these two, especially when I'm the one who's in control. :-D

I worked for almost ten years for a company that shall remain unnamed, and it was there that I met these two, Marnie and Rudy. Funny thing is, I only became really close to them a few months before I left that company (for reasons pertaining to management that sucked big time that shall also go unspecified). I don't want to get into the specifics of our friendship. Suffice it to say that they've never failed to be there just when I needed a friend most -- even those times I didn't raise an SOS. They're always there; it's like they have a sixth sense that alerts them when one is in need of another. I trust these two totally, absolutely. They're two of the handful of people with whom I can be truly myself. They don't go to pains to make me feel prettier or uglier than what I am; with them, I am free to be me, without recrimination. I can let my hair down and go naked. Well, maybe not literally. They would puke. Especially Rudy, who's gay. I can't even begin to describe the insults he regularly heaps upon female genitalia.

Anyway, we aren't the in-your-face kind of friends. Sometimes weeks go by without us talking to each other. But, there's this unspoken understanding that each one is only a phone call away and that nothing is too big or too small to share.

Laughter, there's always laughter. The side-splitting, cheek-cramping sort. Then there are tears too. A person should be able to count on true friends when she needs a shoulder to cry on and when she needs a sympathetic and compassionate ear, that goes without saying (but I did anyway). And provide a strong arm to support their friend as she hunkers down to embrace the toilet to spew her guts out because she drank a few more bottles than she was supposed to. :-) They provide those, sure. But they go beyond that. Sometimes they tell me things I don't want to hear, but which they believe I should anyway. I think it takes quite a bit of trust and love between all parties for them to be secure enough to say to a suffering person "You're such a pathetic dumbass" and for said suffering person not only to accept that statement but be grateful that said friends could say such a thing in a straightforward manner and still feel just how much they care.

I'm having trouble trying to encapsulate in a few words just how much these two mean to me. Sometimes I wonder and feel guilty that I'm not as good a friend to them as they are to me.

I love them.

I guess that's the best and only way I can say it. I love them even more than I love chocolate (or even *gasp* beer). I can practically hear them retching now. :-)

Oh, can anyone tell me what "Maximo" means? A beloved friend called me that recently and won't tell me why. The crazy smartass. Ohh, how he makes me laugh.

Manic Monday #15: Peace

Isn't it strange that the object of war is peace? But that isn't where I'm going with this post. I don't want to get all deep and philosophical now -- not that I often am. Well, maybe sometimes after being exposed to certain stimulants of a physical or mental nature.

Like chocolate.

Everyone knows that chocolate is not only delicious, it can make you feel good. And so it got me to thinking (ignore how I try -- and fail -- to segue smoothly into Morgen's Manic Monday topic this week) about its role in history and in peace-making. Legend has it that the Aztecs bribed the great but terrible god Quetzalcoatl with indecent amounts of chocolate to leave them in peace. Chocolate as a bribe wasn't that effective apparently for them because the Spanish conquistadores still came and, well, conquered.

In more recent history, some members of the Allied Forces proferred chocolate (part of their rations) to starving prisoners in Europe at the end of World War II. It was because of this that chocolate came to symbolize peace and freedom in certain circles. Isn't that a nice idea? There are many things in this world that divide people. But it's also true that even something as simple and innocuous as chocolate has the power to bring us together. Those of us who love chocolate anyway. As chocolatier Vosges Haut-Chocolat proclaims, "we just may come one step closer to bringing peace to the world through chocolate. One Love, One Chocolate." Of course, exercise should be part of the peace-through-chocolate movement. Vigorous, calorie-burning exercise that not only feels good (wink wink) but also eliminates the guilt that can arise from eating chocolate again. And again. And yet again.

Hey, Mimi, maybe you can make chocolate Peace Globes one day. :-)

Manic Monday #14: Red

The subject of vampires has held me in sway for so many years now. Never mind that the factual history of Vlad the Impaler (to whom the Dracula legend is ascribed) is less than savory; never mind the modern scientific studies explaining the pathology of vampirism. Freaks of happenstance they may be, vampires still come across to me as romantic, erotic creatures.

We are all vampires in one way or another, I think. Perhaps not in the literal sense. But like those enthralling, misbegotten beings, each of us possesses a certain talent (or power, if you will) that makes us seem superior to another person. Some are like Nosferatu and leave others quaking in fear and dread; some are pretty and petty like Lestat; but each one has a unique something that sets him or her apart from everybody else. Each also has a weakness that is sure to be his or her undoing, much like how sunlight is for vampires (this, of course, does not apply to Daywalkers).

Then there's the need to feed. While we have the basics to keep us breathing and existing, many of us spend our days and nights partaking of that certain something that makes us feel alive. A certain something that stokes our passions. Is that something as sensual as the sight of a creature of the night holding her victim helpless in her arms, her open lips on his neck or wrist, her cheeks moving in time with his fluttering pulse as she drinks from him? Perhaps, perhaps not. And when the feeding is done, she lovingly licks each red drop that has managed to escape her attention, milking the act for everything it's worth.

The danger in this is having a particular source dry up, not being there when it's needed or wanted (because of whatever circumstance), which can lead to being someone's downfall -- if it's allowed to. Then there's the problem of being a willing victim, fatally attracted to the prospect of immortality...or maybe it's because having one's blood sucked out by a hot plasmavore just feels so damned good.

Yep, maybe we're all vampires sometimes. Or the prey of one. Whatever. I just wish I looked half as good in black leather.

Manic Monday #13: Graphic

I learned about the Mosaic Generator from fellow Pinay blogger Irene, who seems to be on extended hiatus. I couldn't include everyone here, I'm sorry. (Besides, a lot of you don't have self-portraits on your blogs while some have faux-portraits! But where I could, I took the liberty of using non-blog pictures to which I have access, hehe.)

Graphics technology can be so amazing sometimes, especially to hicks like me. Case in point, this Image Mosaic Generator. You upload a picture and it generates a mosaic for you. Hundreds or thousands of pictures placed together just so, coming together just so to form a unique, familiar whole.

But isn't that what we are in real life? Zillions of bits and pieces from the past, perhaps even the future, all coming together to mold what we are in the Here and Now? The numerous parts of our past, our thoughts and actions, the people and events that influenced us or made an impact somehow, combined with our hopes and dreams for the future, all these contribute to the big picture of our lives as we're living them now.

There are some parts of the picture that make us squirm, elements of ourselves that we'd rather do without. But these things are parts of what make each life mosaic so interesting, so unique. I think each of us regrets certain parts of our past (though many won't admit to it). Regretting doing too much or too little.

But where there's regret, there's also hope. Each life is a dynamic mosaic; as long as we breathe and live, we're always adding to it, changing it, enriching it.

Death itself is powerless against these mosaics in the general scheme of things. For even when the day comes that we cease to breathe and our flesh dissolves into ashes and dust, we still live on -- as an infinitesimal part of somebody else's mosaic.



See links to many other Manic Monday participants over at Morgen's It's a Blog Eat Blog World.

Manic Monday #12: Green

Verde que te quiero verde.
Verde viento. Verdes ramas.
El barco sobre la mar.
Y el caballo en la montaña.

(Green, how I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship out on the sea.
And the horse on the mountain.)
-from Federico García Lorca's Romance Sonambulo

This poem is fraught with longing, an emotion that is sometimes confused with (or which can lead to) envy, which in turn can be relatively harmless or very dangerous, depending on the stability of one's mind and heart. But that's neither here nor there; I'd much rather focus on the positive, not the negative, connotations of the color green.

Such as:

Its metaphoric significance in material prosperity, enabling us to indulge in some creature comforts. Ka-ching!

Its prominence in color therapy. According to crystalinks.com, "Green is the color of healing and traveling back in time. It will balance the emotions and brings about a feeling of calmness. Green is a good general healing color because it stimulates growth therefore it is good for helping heal broken bones - regrowth of tissue of all kinds." You or I may not believe in this, but who knows? It could be true. There are many fields of experience in the universe that are as yet unexplained by science.

Its role in humor. Who doesn't enjoy a good green joke? For those unfamiliar with the term, a green joke is simply one that is sexual in nature. Sex and laughter -- definitely the makings of good medicine!

Its ability to calm one's nerves, to soothe the mind. Who in his or her right mind can fail to find tranquility in the greenness of forests, the turquoises and aquamarines of lakes and oceans, the subtlety of new grass? It's one of the colors of spring, a season of hope, rebirth, and renewal.


I'm sending happy, healing green thoughts to a friend of mine who broke his leg recently -- in three places, no less! Heaven knows he could use some laughs. Get well soon, sweetie. Don't lose that smile.

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Manic Mondays is the brainchild of Morgen over at It's a Blog Eat Blog World! Try it, you might like it. :-)

Manic Monday #11: Survive

Manic Monday is the brainchild of Morgen. He posts the theme word on Fridays; write a post about it the following Monday. You can also post a photo, video, sing a song, whatever. Just have fun with the theme word.

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I know this is an old video, but it hasn't lost any of its cuteness over the years.

Life isn't cute all the time, though. Many times it can downright suck...big time. Having a bad hair day, having people fail to keep their word, not finding the ice cream flavor you're craving in the supermarket, being in the wrong place at the wrong time, being in the right place at the wrong time, being in the wrong place at the right time -- all these suck...big time.

Yet in the midst of all these there shine certain somethings to keep us afloat: the people we love (and who love us) and familiar comforts. They are invaluable in helping us get through the good and the bad. More than these, though, there exists within us not only the hope but the expectation that things will get better. So despite the general suckiness of things we not only survive, we thrive.

Until the gigantic mirror ball falls on us.

But at least we get to do our thing first, right? And we get to dance like mad under the lights, hey ya? We really don't know the length of time allotted to us to shake our booties on this dance floor also known as life before it's lights out. So dance, I say. As frenziedly as you can, dance! (Though slow dancing is yummy, too.)



If you could only see me now, boys and girls. I practically put that alien to shame. Hah!

Manic Monday #10: Tax

Tax is this week's theme word for Morgen's Manic Monday. If you're playing, you can use the theme word (or any of its variations) any way you want to. It's all in the name of fun and creativity.

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People who earn money honestly, through their own hard work, are understandably grumpy whenever the tax season arrives. One can practically hear the collective mental scream of anguish almost everywhere: "No, no! Don't take my money!" To add insult to injury, doing the paperwork can be boring as hell.

Here in the Philippines, personal income tax can range from five to thirty-two percent. That's really, really low when you compare it to personal income tax rates in certain developed countries. According to the OECD (Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development) Taxing Wages report, the top three countries where the average worker (single and childless) takes home less than half his salary or cost of employment in 2006 were Belgium (55.4%), Germany (52.5%) and Hungary (51%). Turkey, Poland, and France were the countries imposing the highest taxes on single-earner, dual-child married couples with average incomes. It isn't only income tax that's depressing. You also have to factor in everyday things like value-added tax, sales tax, service tax, etc. The good thing is that citizens of such countries can avail themselves of benefits and services like state-sponsored education and health care, which are funded from taxation.

Still, everyone moans and groans at the prospect of filing taxes. It's a fact of life for many people and it seems it will stay that way even if we all went riding naked on horseback in the streets (like legend says Lady Godiva did to protest against the heavy taxes levied on her husband's workers).


Hmmm. But that would be one hell of a street party, wouldn't it?

Manic Monday #9: Snap

Snap is this week's theme word for Morgen's Manic Monday. Other forms of the word can also be used, hokay?

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Carl Jung once said something about how great talents are like fruits, dangling from the thinnest of twigs that are easily snapped off. What he meant by that exactly, I'm not sure. One thing I do know is that everybody has a talent, and that no talent is too small to be dismissed or too big to be feared.

Talent reminds me of an excellent book by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry: The Little Prince. This little prince lived on a small planet all by himself, performing several activities to keep his days and nights busy. One of these was to care for a rose, which he watered and protected from animals by placing it under a glass globe. He loved it very much.

One day he came to Earth and, wandering here and there, came upon a rose garden. The sight of this garden broke his heart for it was full of roses. All along he'd believed that his rose was unique in the whole universe, yet here he looking at hundreds of others. His own wouldn't have stood out from the others if he had happened to bring it along. But, after the initial shock and dismay (and because he was such a wise little prince), he realized something: his rose was unique after all! Throughout the years he had loved it and nurtured it. It was his and his alone. That set it apart from the others.

So it is, I think, with people and their talents. Take, for instance, a painter. It's almost a certainty that there are more critically acclaimed painters than painters who perform their craft in obscurity. But does that mean the unacclaimed painters' work is mediocre? Perhaps to professional critics and such others, it is. Perhaps having their art being labeled "mediocre" is one of the blows that snaps the twig, felling the talent.

Or maybe this scenario. A glass blower is critically acclaimed, his work is popular among many people. He knows he does a good job, but when he sees his glass pieces displayed among many others, he gets this feeling of inadequacy, of mediocrity. I think most people go through this glass blower's predicament at least once; it doesn't matter whether they're writers, composers, athletes, web designers, sculptors, tattoo artists, teachers, etc. A person pours his heart and soul into something, sweats blood and sheds tears over it. After the rush of exhilaration of a job passionately and excellently done, he takes a breath to enjoy the fruits of his labor.

Until one day, the composer hears (what he thinks) is a better song; the teacher comes across a fellow educator who makes teaching seem effortless; the writer reads something so well written his stomach clenches in envy. The first flush of achievement is replaced by uncertainty. This niggling demon in the back of his mind shakes his confidence and has him questioning his abilities.

I won't claim that what other people say and think is unimportant because it is, especially if the other people in question are authorities in their fields or if they're people whose opinions matter to you. Validation and approval are flattering and encouraging, but your fulfillment (and mine) shouldn't hinge solely on those.

Ultimately, fulfillment should come from within; self-acknowledgment and self-validation are achieved when you are able to say truthfully that you truly gave it your best, that you couldn't have done any better. Knowing that another person does it better shouldn't deter you from what you love to do. There will always be better -- and worse -- writers, athletes, web designers, musicians, glass blowers. What you do, if you are impassioned, should never be mediocre for you because you love it, you nurture it.

Though there are countless others with similar talents, yours is unique. Because it is yours and yours alone, and nobody else can do it quite the way you do.